Crying, I thrust my hand into my handbag; furrowing, rummaging, grasping. I’ve been here before: meet a guy, fall in love and then realise he’s a serial adulterer.
I was borne from idiots, so I must’ve inherited their idiot genes. That’s the only explanation to my own incessant pattern of idiocy and the fact I attract idiots, for the fool is one that repeats themselves.
Finally, I find what I’ve been searching for: a V flick to his face and the words, ‘Two things: one, you’re a nob and two, we’re over.’